


You'll be dead and I'll forget you

by BloodyMary



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyMary/pseuds/BloodyMary
Summary: Six-years-old Boba discovers poetry and makes choices about his future career. Jango has to deal with it.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Jango Fett
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	You'll be dead and I'll forget you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [virdant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/gifts).



> You know how the mandalorian word for parent is "buir"? Since that's going to be hard for children to pronounce, I would like to posit that they just call their parents "bubu". You're welcome.

“Bubu, I want to be a poet,” Boba announced at the ripe old age of six. Jango promptly experienced every feeling at once. There was dread that his legacy would disappear, there was pride because look at his boy being so certain in himself, there was anger at himself for reading Mirialan poetry to an impressionable child.

Hadn't Jaster warned him that Mirialan poetry was a gateway drug? You read one poem and the next thing you knew, you were declamating ballads about the meaning of life.

But the more time he spent trying to sort all of his feelings out, the more time Boba had to be become entrenched in the idea. Jango tried to formulate a response, one that would encompass “Son, I love you” and “Please don’t do this”, but what came out was, “But I bounty hunting?”

Boba looked at him with an expression of pity that only children faced with adult idiocy could produce and sighed the sigh of a weary ancient. “I’m going to be a bounty hunter poet, bubu. I’m gonna write poetry about the hunt. Not mushy stuff.”

Jango processed that.

“Right, of course,” he said.

Boba nodded. “I made a poem.”

Jango, who consumed several books on child-rearing before Boba had been born, knew this was the true test. He’d have to listen to a six-year-old recite a poem and not say anything to discourage his child.

“Roses are red, violets are blue, you’re dead, and I will forget you,” Boba said with a satisfied air.

This was going to be a long day.


End file.
